Epic of Zelda
by reathai
Summary: This is the ninth time, and wryly, he wonders if he's finally reached a magic number – wryly, because he doesn't believe in that sort of magic anymore, only wonders occasionally, wistfully, if he's finally attained mortality... LoZ plus classical myths.


**Disclaimer**: _I am merely borrowing._

_Notes: This is a retelling of Zelda. It is a combination of many elements, mostly from the console games... all put together with bits and pieces of classical myths and epics. What do you think?_

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It's raining hard outside, but he's come to realise that it almost always is these days. Not that it should surprise him, since Hyrule lies on the windward side of the mountains – not that it matters much to him. Having just finished a job in Termina, he welcomes the respite, and the weather conditions, while not ideal, hardly matter in the end, as long as he has somewhere safe to sleep at night and fresh bread to eat in the morning. Besides, he likes the little mountain town of Ordon as more than just the first refuge on a harried descent; he relishes the sanctuary he's found in this home. _I will leave soon enough_, he reasons, and hums quietly to himself as the woman puts the baby to bed in the box of hay on the other side of the hearth, directly across from him. He's watched her do it countless times over the past few days, however, and so shuts his eyes, leaning the side of his face against the heavy glass panes, relishing the coolness and the rhythmic tapping of the drops. He finds it calming. The baby probably does as well, but the woman settles down in the rocking chair beside the makeshift crib, her knuckles white in the golden firelight.

"He should have been back by now," she tells him softly. He's known those words were coming, has been waiting for them to finally erupt into the peaceful silence, although his anticipation fails to lessen the difficulty in responding. Coughing in that same soft tone, she clears her throat and tries again, more hesitant this time, accusingly speculative. "Rusl said he wouldn't be long."

He only nods at that. Obviously, she wants him to investigate. It's painfully evident, her intent; she wants him to hike down to the trailhead that leads to the village, see for himself what the "commotion" is or was that Rusl had mumbled about before vanishing into the night, find her husband for her and restore the completeness of her family under this thatched roof. _Maybe she just doesn't trust you without Rusl around_, part of him observes. But at the same time, another part recalls numerous instances where Rusl had left him alone with Uli and the baby – for work, to visit a friend, to barter with the neighbours on the common. After the incident on the night of his arrival, Rusl has placed complete faith in him. And Uli, as dedicated as she seems, should share that trust by proxy.

To be fair, though, most of the village seemed to accept him after that first encounter. Since then, he's spent a few of his days wandering around the place, sitting in the goat pasture, watching the children play, usually helping the villagers with odd chores. He's always found that mixing with the locals and showing that he isn't above getting down and dirty to help them – that sort of gesture normally improves his reception. He's always known how to keep a low profile. But here, the hassle escapes him; the children offer no threat, and the villagers ignore the sword at his back in favour of his strength, his willingness to work without complaint. Like a ghost he passes amongst them and he likes the veil of disinterest cast on him by the others. He hasn't thought about it for a while – hasn't had the chance – but he notices peacefully that such a transparent presence is all he wants with one exception.

"Please," she says again, even quieter than her first statement.

His gaze flashes from beneath the unkempt fringe, catching her in a piercing stare. He sees no malice there, only distress packed tightly into the worry lines of her young face. Flowing to his feet, he stretches silently, popping his joints methodically, until he feels loose enough to fold towards the floor and tie his boot laces. He had been trailing them everywhere all afternoon, and the baby had played with them for a while, when Uli had busied herself with making bread at the scrubbed wooden table at the centre of the tiny house. The memory of the girl's happy sounds makes him smile as he slings the heavy travelling cloak across his shoulders and over his head, short sword in hand. As he left, the woman called her gratitude with faint relief.

i

Terrified, Rusl bolts. The dirt path is nearly invisible in the dim light; the moon obscured, the rain blends together the faint grey of the path and the shadows swelling like the tide from the grass on either side. In his terror he can barely follow the winding trail that has been committed to his memory for as long as he can remember – but he doesn't care, so long as he can keep the brightly burning windows of his home in his sight. Back at the trailhead, terrible monsters suddenly exploded out of the shadows with curved, poisoned blades that lashed out mercilessly against the stunned villagers. All the warning they'd had had been the cloaked stranger at the gates, a dying woman, begging to be let inside. Now, all he can think about is finding his mysterious guest and calling him to arms.

His boots are loud on the soft earth, his breathing ragged and gasping as he ploughs through the relentless rain. One of the shadow creatures lost his sword, sent it skittering into the yawning darkness that shouldn't have frightened him so much. But if his memory serves correctly, these creatures are what his grandfather had called Garo, from the country just over the mountains – not truly creatures, but nameless men versed in swordplay and magic. Garo, his grandfather had told him, only congregate in the presence of soldiers from Ikana. Some sort of war joined the two peoples, and Garo only attacked Ikanans. But all Rusl can recall are the animated skeletons, those miserable shades that had suddenly appeared out of the western trees and demanded provisions. All he can recall is the stranger-

"Link!" he calls desperately. Just ahead, the tall, lean figure of the young man looms out of the rain and the darkness, his shoulders strangely bulky from the folds of his cloak. From beneath the hood, Rusl spies the intense blue eyes and the narrow nose, the grim mouth fixed in expectation of bad news. The very tips of the heavy honey-blonde fringe drip with water and Rusl feels ridiculous for the powerful relief spreading through him upon staring at this man, just another man, armed with a polished blade, about to die in the massacre at the gates. "Link, there are Garo-"

"What?" he interrupts sharply. His head immediately swivels around, eyes tracing the shadows around them, seemingly looking for something that may or may not be there. Without looking up, he tells Rusl, "Run. Stifle the baby's cries." His back is turned, already striding purposefully towards the gates, when the wretched man calls him back, pleading.

"Link, come with us," he begs. "I've been wounded- My family- Please." Rusl can't tell if Link has stopped or not, or is even considering the pitiful request, and he almost regrets putting it into the space between them in the first place. But the cries of the dying villagers are growing fainter, a rushing sound taking their place, and he abruptly finds himself being pulled along by the young swordsman, whose eyes continuously dart to either side. As they run, they begin to hear screams throughout the rest of the village, indicating the advance of the shadow-men. Rusl can't understand the impending massacre – he just runs, one foot in front of the other, alongside this goddess-sent stranger, towards his house on the hill and prays to Nayru for protection.

With a clatter, they race up the rickety wooden stairs and across the broad porch; Link shoves Rusl inside, yanking the heavy oak door shut behind them and simultaneously pulling something out of a pouch at his belt. Rusl wastes no time in dragging Uli from her chair and muttering urgently, "The village is under attack. We're leaving-"

Bewildered, she twists out of his grasp and scoops up the baby, clutching her tightly to her breast. Rusl's momentum takes him forward, into the kitchen area of the tiny house, where he begins stuffing bread and cheese and apples into an empty flour sack, bundling blankets into rolls and tying them off roughly, dashing about the place trying to find his broadsword, the one he inherited from his father. All the while, he can feel the blood draining out of his face from the gash in his sword-arm.

Uli, standing off to the side, watches the men fearfully; Rusl's movement frightens her just as much as Link's utter stillness. He's removed the folds of his cloak from his head and readjusted the strap that secures an ornate sheath to his shoulder, as well as a fully-stocked quiver she hasn't seen since the night of his arrival. He removes the bow from its place amongst the arrows and deftly strings it, nocking an arrow that he brushes with the powder from his belt. The sight of him standing just inside the door, between the jamb and the window, just waiting for something to come through, lodges a jolt of horror deep in her heart: this is real. Something is coming to kill them and only a stranger with a bow and a sword stands ready to defend her family. She squeezes her eyes shut as the baby wakes and begins to sniffle-

"Rusl, what's happening?"

"Shh," and he immediately goes to her, wraps her in a bloody embrace, "everything will be fine. We just have to get out of here-"

"But why?" she demands tearfully, except Link cuts her off with a vicious snarl. Her mouth snaps shut and she cowers against her husband, who responds by holding her against him, protecting them from whatever is trying to force its way through the door. Rusl has the blankets and the food and the weapons under his arm, Uli under the other; something is trying the knob, attempting to hack its way through the solid wood. Everyone in the room freezes as the bow suddenly rises to eye-level, trained on the space soon to be occupied by a head, the door held at bay only by Link's shoulder and most of his body weight. The blond man turns the gravest eyes to the pair and barks: "RUN."

ii

The door slams open; springing sideways, he looses the arrow straight into the Garo's skull, piercing its right eye and nearly sending the shaft through the back of its skull with the force of its flight. But even as the body tumbles over the threshold, dead, another leaps through the gap with blades swirling, glinting maliciously in the crackling firelight still spilling from the hearth. Ducking the blow, he swoops in low with another arrow, catching the Garo in the midriff and the one directly behind as well, even as Link back-peddles, intending to follow the family through the backdoor, the garden, the back gate that marks the westernmost boundary of the village. It only occurs to him now that he isn't sure which way they took, although he hopes they chose the path he came by, the little-used trail that winds up through the foothills before descending to the banks of the raging Zora's River that flows into Hyrule. Kakariko, a small town downstream, should welcome them with open arms. If he didn't owe them for room and board and unnecessary kindness over the past few days, he might have trusted them to find their own way, held off the Garo as long as possible, and fled himself. The debt still stands.

And so, swiftly pulling the bow over a shoulder so that it rests over his back, he draws his sword and scoops up his travelling pack with his free hand, the movement costing him a sharp blow to the side of the head. The blade, before contacting his temple with the flat side due to his hasty dodge, nicks his ear and slices the tip clean off. Rather than unsteadying his defence, the injury only drives him against his attacker; he guts it with a single swipe, grimacing against the spray of ghostly blood, and the evaporation of the corpse. All around him he spies the depthless eyes of the undead soldiers, servants too loyal to relinquish their corporeal forms to death. On account of this, he slashes at their onslaught with furious strokes, backing through the house, avoiding the sparse but sturdy wooden furniture in his path, painfully aware of the difficulty in escaping unscathed.

He almost wants to berate himself. He has no business dawdling here as the rearguard to a family of strangers from a village he was only meant to pass through, unmolested. When he arrived four nights ago, travel-worn and exhausted, he hadn't wanted an inn – he'd wanted just what he wants now, a quiet place to rest and collect his thoughts, to determine the next step, the next destination. But instead he's once again given the Garo a blatant reminder, and their blades, interconnected by some terrible magic, never forget the taste of a man's blood. Even if he banishes these spirits now, others will seek him out. Others will find him. These shades of soldiers, they'd hounded him in Termina, haunting his shadow during his frenzied flight through the mountains, and it had only been through a desperate stroke of luck that he'd been able to negotiate his release. There is no Master amongst these Garo to call off their attack.

Shaking his head angrily, frustrated, he jams himself into the doorway, still parrying and thrusting with carefully metered movements, even as another Garo traces a shallow gash along his side. Because of this village, he's lost the peace he thought he'd so painfully, unrelentingly earned with his deeds in Termina. He's on the threshold now, battling the last of the Garo- True to form, the group began to retreat after the first few violent casualties, content to let their prey go on a short chain, to finish him off later when he least expects an attack. But Link remembers everything. He remembers the dirt and dust suffocating him as he backtracked over countless trails, the mud smeared over his hands and boots as he slid blindly down rain-slicked scree – all foolish attempts to confuse his pursuers. He remembers now that he used to believe in merciful goddesses. He used to kneel down and pray and beg for deliverance but no one ever answered, and so here he is now, his sword flashing in the firelight for the last time as the point rips through the last Garo left in the house. When the body disintegrates, he takes a final look at the place: one-storey, two rooms, portly woodstove, wide-mouthed hearth strung with herbs and pots and candlesticks, the baby's box of hay, the casement windows through which he had watched the daily bustling of the little village. _The children are probably all dead by now_, he notes quietly. With the snap of the door, he rushes into the yard and leaps the low stone wall, vanishing down the trail into the curtain of rain.

iii

It takes a solid six minutes of running before the adrenaline wears off enough for the light-headedness to hit him. Stumbling, his right knee awkwardly scrapes the trail, the weight of his pack dragging him onto his side. Beneath the thick canopy, only a fine mist reaches him, glazing the suddenly clammy skin of his face. He swallows thickly but bright white spots suddenly pop before his eyes, contrasting sharply with the indistinct surroundings, and he knows that if he doesn't rouse himself, one or more of the Garo will rise up out of his own shadow and slit his throat.

But a shriek tears through the darkness and he gasps, a hand reaching out blindly to prop him upright again. _That's Uli_. With new, desperate energy flowing through his veins, he stumbles to his feet and takes off down the trail, gasping now from both his speed and the white-hot terror streaking through his chest. The Garo must have found their scent and chased them instead. It's a terrible realisation that hits his conscience in full force, but he doesn't have time to stop and choke and despair. The trail escapes him. Flushed with adrenaline, he crashes indiscriminately through underbrush and hurdles fallen moss-covered logs in his haste – ordinarily he would be appalled by his lack of caution. Except, he can't think straight anymore and the urgency of lost time is pressing insistently against the front of his mind. Just ahead, he can see the glitter of swords, hear their clanging over the whimpering of the baby and the sobs from its mother and the incessant pattering of the rain on the leaves around them. Another step, and his thumb has released his own sword from its sheath, his hand curling around the hilt in anticipation of the coming fight.

Uli shrieks again, but this time, her breath is cut short by a knife being slammed home against her chest. She drops the baby with a solid thump, and in another moment, she's crumpled to her knees like a broken puppet, her eyes glassy, body twisted sideways, bloodied knife protruding from her chest and a thin trickle of thick blood dribbling from the corner of her lips. Link, his sword already hilt-deep in her assailant, tears his eyes from the sight only to encounter the stricken expression on Rusl's pale face. In a matter of seconds the Garo has disintegrated and all that's left on the rutted mud of the trail is shocked silence, filled by the rain. He manages a rattling breath and thinks, _It's raining harder_, instead of _She's dying_ or _Do something_ or _That baby is motherless_.

Rusl's on his knees. Gingerly, he gathers his wife into his shaking arms and cradles her head, and Link reaches for the dwindling supply of fairy dust at his belt, but he shakes his head and mutters simply, "She's dead. Link, she's dead. My Uli's dead."

And he's disappointed. Something like remorse fills the wide cavity of his chest, turning him cold like wind-washed stone and he doesn't know what to say. He's never known what to say, but especially now- So he goes with his instincts and picks up the child, holding a barely shaking hand out to the crouched man. It feels wrong spattering the baby's clothes with phantom blood; it feels wrong, but her mother is dead, her eyes still open and empty and pleading the goddesses for mercy that never comes. His mind seems foggy now, so fogged with exhaustion and fear and blood loss that he can only use his instincts and force the grieving man to his feet and down the trail that somehow, miraculously emerges from the gloom of the alders and firs and ferns, drawing him along step by step. Rusl takes the baby before they make it very far. Link swallows.

"I'm sorry," is all he says.

"I know," is all Rusl replies.

Together, they head for the river.


End file.
